Forum:Dusty Blues
The year is 2279, and the New California Republic has gone under a strenuous period of political change. A string of deceit and corruption has been discovered in the highest echelons of power, the NCR senate, leading to a quick and forced change in leadership. Things are not just going poorly in the NCR's political dealings, but in it's military as well. The NCR Army has been dealing with a large-scale raider incursion inside it's own territories, losing whole outposts to an organized and well-trained army of raiders, the leader of which remains unknown. Panic has spread in some areas, namely around the frontier areas where the presence of troops has diminished, and, for the first time in many years, caravans have now had to group together in long, winding convoys. A surge of recruitment has lead to massive changes to the NCR Army, changing it into a now large-scale, quasi-colonialist force. The whole of the Core Region is at war, with some areas surrounding it now descending into lawless and dangerous breeding grounds for bandits and raider warlords. Times change, but war, war never changes. Part I This is a sample post. When you are posting in an RP thread, put the following above your posts: . This helps keeps things neat and cuts down on confusion. Spell check your posts! Cpl. Larry S. Johnson, New Californian Republic Military, rubbed his chin with his one free hand, the other gripping onto the service rifle's grip. He felt a growth of stubble seven days thick at the least, the rough leather gloves he wore catching on it. He was pleased that it had grown back after so long with a smooth face. He'd forgotten how much he missed having a beard, seen as current NCR regulations refused him the right to grow even a small chin strip. He liked being in the military, seen as how the perks of the job far outweighed anything that regular civilian life in the NCR was offering. He also had a perverse, he worried, liking of how authoritarian the NCR was. A thin smile grew over his face as he though about this. He liked the whole glamour of it, being an every day hero of the common citizen. He still remembered that freshly-baked pear pie that old woman had given him in the Hub when he and the other GIs had gone through during a parade. He noticed out of the corner of his eye, a red faced and frowning ranger frog-marching towards him. The smile faded. "Corporal!" The ranger shouted, marching over in his patrol armour. Here was the part of the job he hated: dealing with the rangers. "Yes, sir?" He said, putting on his most neutral look and holstering the rifle over his shoulder with both hands free. "Where the fuck is your captain?" The ranger demanded, patrol hat slipping over his face before he shoved it out of the way. "Just relaxing in the officer's mess, sir. We've not had contact for four days." Larry hated the rangers. The way they treated low ranks as inferiors made him unhappy and uneasy. They often joked about how the grunts, as regular troops were called, should be used as bullet sponges. Sometimes he wondered whether they were joking. The ranger's nostrils flared and his eyes widened, his mouth twisting into a sneer. "Fucking grunts, you're too fucking lazy, that's what you are!" He burst with rage. "Your captain should be managing patrols, not drinking Nuka Cola!" The ranger spun on his heel and frog marched in the direction of the officer's mess. He was obviously new. Larry knew his captain pretty well. He also knew his captain didn't take shit from yuppies new to the field. Even the elite rangers kept away from Cpt. Stewart. Larry smiled to himself. The last contact was a simple and minor one. A young scavenger was chased by a radroach and, ostensibly due to her fear of bugs, hadn't been able to kill it. She'd run the full three miles to the outpost, sobbing her eyes out in fear and terror. A private, moved by this, marched up to the bug and, heaving it off the ground, beat it to death on one of the outpost's old walls. The stain was still there. Then came the shouting from the officer's mess. Larry laughed to himself softly, pulling a cigarette out with his one free hand and placing it between his lips. More shouting came as Larry went and pulled out a cigarette lighter. Then laughter and a cry came out. He turned around, lit cigarette between his lips, in time to see the ranger fall through the double doors of the officer's mess and backwards into the dirt. He scrambled to pick himself back up as the red faced Cpt. Stewart stormed out, sleeves pulled up and teeth gritted, shouting; "Come and get it, ranger boy!" Larry nearly choked laughing on his cigarette. The mournful wail of the desert wind came washing over the old homestead, like the cries of the lost and damned. It was a thorough scene of abandonment, the house decrepit and ancient, the field long since turned to irradiated dirt. Fresh blood splattered the walls of the farmhouse, mangled limbs and corpses, and the stench of burnt flesh indicated an explosion. An old barn, its red paint long since faded and its tin roof almost eaten away by rust and acid rain. The wind rattled the barn, casting dust and sand into the shafts of sunlight that lazily fell upon the otherwise dark stable. Four men stood over the dust dry bones of beasts of burden, weapons drawn. Three stood together at one end, clad in musty old dusters and wearing large cowboy hats, their revolvers pointed to the man opposite. The man, a mercenary-tribal in his early twenties, leveled his twin sawn-off double barrel shotguns at his opponents, a feral smile hidden behind the menacing bandanna he wore. The bandanna was a faded red, and bore a patchwork of what could have been a zipper, which formed a sort of snarling visage of steel teeth. The mercenary wore a light hooded jacket, its purple color long since faded and mired by patchwork, it gave its wearer an almost reaper-like visage. His green, predatory eyes, bore into the man in the center of the trio, the leader, judging from how he stood behind his two compatriots. "C'mon Walton, you're not walking outta here alive, so just gimme what I came here for, and I'll kill you quick... just like those boys in the farmhouse." Walton was obviously flustered, sweat dripped down his red face, there was fear in his beady brown eyes, the kind of fear a caged animal feels right before it attacks. "Shes just a whore!" He shouted at the masked gunman. "An expensive whore, Walton, worth eight hundred caps, and after smoking all your goons, that money is sounding better and better." Walton's hand trembled, his scoped 44. Magnum heavy in his hands, but at this range, he could hardly miss. A nervous, partially forced laugh issued from his fangle-toothed maw, "You think I'm scared of you?! Look, I'mma gonna give your, bushwhacking, tribal ass one chance," At this the mercenary's eyes narrowed, the excited energy replaced by overwhelming hatred almost instantly, "ta crawl back to that rat-fucker Damian, and tell him the next time we steal his star whore, ta send someone, a little more impressive than a than a slack jawed, knuckle dragging, inbred waster like y-!" The mercenary pulled the triggers, seizing the moment when Walton's thugs were distracted by their bosses rant. The two thugs fell back, slugs ripping fist sized holes in their chests and spraying blood and viscera all over the barns ancient walls. Walton pulled the trigger, but not before the mercenary fired, blowing both of Walton's legs off at the knees and throwing the raiders shot wide as he tumbled back. Walton's gun was thrown from his sweaty hands as he hit the ground, a short, agonized cry escaping his clenched teeth. The mercenary casually reloaded his shotguns before sliding them back into their custom holsters at his waist, watching the raider as he frantically clawed his way across the dirt, whimpers of pain and agony mingling with a hundred or so colorful curses as he desperately reached for his magnum. The weapon, and revenge, was almost in his grasp when the mercenaries black boot came crashing down on his hand with a wet crunch. Walton's scream of pain died in his throat as the other black boot smashed into his jaw, flipping the man on his back and spraying blood and rotten teeth across the adjacent wall. The mercenary lept onto the raider, one hand wrenching him up a bit by the collar as the other formed into a fist, and came down on Walton's face with all the force its master could muster. "You got something else to say, motherfucker!? Huh?! Any more funny-ass words you wanna spit outta your fucking mouth?!" The leather spikes on the mercenary's fingerless gloves tore out chunks of skin and flesh as each blow struck home, creating small rivers of blood that ran down Walton's brutally beaten features. The mercenary stopped, bringing Walton within an inch of his face, green eyes burning with indignation, "You know who I am?! You worthless piece of Brahmin shit! My name is Hoodlum! The Texas Terror, Hunter of the Sands, the GODDAMNED GRIM REAPER!" With that he began to dig his thumbs into Walton's eyes, ignoring the raiders pleas for mercy. "Wheres the girl you piece of shit?!" "Please!" "WHERES THE GIRL?!" Blood and tears poured from Walton's nearly crushed eye sockets, "Dawson!" He shrieked, "Shes in Dawson!" Hoodlum pulled his thumbs from the mans eyes, letting him lay flat on his back. "Where's Dawson?" Walton weakly pointed east with his good hand, sobbing and gasping. Hoodlum stood, still glaring at the raiders broken form, he took a few steps toward the raiders magnum, lifting up the gun from the dirt and sliding it into his belt. He returned to the raider, looming over him like death surely was now. Walton didn't see Hoodlum raise his foot, but the moment he felt the cold rubber of its soles meet his neck he attempted a last feeble effort to plea and struggle. Slowly, like one would crush an insect, Hoodlum ground his boot down onto Walton's neck until the wet crunch of muscle heralded the end. Walton lay still, his tongue lolling out of his bloody, near toothless mouth, eyes still dripping bloody tears. "Dirt." Hoodlum spat, a final, hateful insult to the raider who dared lash out against his ego. Hoodlum casually stripped the the bodies of ammo, and made his way out of the barn, pushing the rickety doors aside. He was greeted with the slathering maw of a Nightstalker. The mutant cross between serpent and canine was old, its fur matted and falling out, its scales dull and weathered. It was missing its left fang and right eye, and its right front leg was clearly broken as the creature feebly limped forward, its tail giving a defiant rattle. Hoodlum stared the creature down, it had been abandoned by its pack long ago, that much was clear. The mercenary never broke eye-contact, and the creature, sensing an easier meal waited beyond the tribal, wisely limped around him and into the barn. With the creature out of his way, Hoodlum made his way to his motorcycle, Ironsides, which he had stashed behind the homesteads two-toilet outhouse. He mounted the iron beast, its form gnarled and covered in graffiti, scrap plates and tally marks giving it the look of a misguided attempt at making a war machine. At its front sat two belt fed SMGs, whose safety switches had been welded permanently in the fire position. Hoodlum couldn't help but grin savagely as the engine roared to life as he twisted the key, "Let's go get us some caps pretty girl." He patted the motorcycles gas tank as if it were a horse, then gunned the throttle, launching him into the desert, toward his fortune. Towards Dawson. "What the fuck am I even doing here?" The question made the caravan boss turn and look at the ghoul. "sorry boss, thinking out loud." he apologized after noticing his surroundings yet again; about four miles ahead was a collection of buildings that passed for a town, their goal. several scattered farmsteads to their left, The bigot Jefferson, the only other guard at his back, and what seemed to be a endless expanse of dirt to the right. "Well cut it out" the boss told him "you're paid to guard not think." Jefferson snickered at this."You shut it too Jefferson." When we get to town, i'm gonna clock him Eric thought to himself, glancing towards the human behind him after I get some supplies that is. It was a thought that made him somewhat uneasy. He had used almost all his ammo getting from Texas to Nevada, not to mention money and food. He did manage to get this caravan job when he got to Nevada however so there was that. Should've just stayed back at the ranch. But here he was anyway, on the far side of the Rockies, just to see the government that rose out of his old home. Damn Hodges and his big mouth. he thought again of his local trader sitting on the porch with himself and the current head of the Juarez' family, drinking tequila and talking the night away. Eric was about to snooze in his rocking chair when Hodges turned to him "Didga hear? they got some big collection of town back west, i hear where you said you were from." that was all it took to get Eric out here. A sudden change in the wind snapped Eric out of his thoughts, as the sounds of assault rifles and wooping blew in from the town in front of them. The caravan boss looked at him and Jefferson "I don't know whats going on down there, but be careful you two." "Hey, corporal, wait up!" Shouted the recruit, panting and wheezing with his hands clamped to his knee caps. "I can't fucking run in all this shit!" Larry rolled his eyes and grinned at the other two riflemen. "Jesus, fatty, you think you could run in all that shit better if there was a Gecko sweet'n'sour barbeque going on around here?" The recruit looked up and frowned. "Fuck you." He gasped. Larry's grin got broader. Alright, guys, there's an old gas station just up the road here," Larry pointed to a little speck on the horizon. "That's where we're gonna set up shop and wait for the other reinforcements." Larry looked around the group, peering at each individual soldier, but also taking the time to survey the landscape. The vast expanse of barren desert was somewhat unnerving, though the odd abandoned homestead or farm or even rest stop dotted the horizon, though they were practically skeletons of buildings, as if blown away by the desert itself. Larry earned a quick nod from all three riflemen, albeit a short and sharp one from the wheezing recruit, and, with a flick of his free right hand, marched on with the other riflemen. The gas station was as empty as it was remote, with only a bare and long since abandoned Chryslus still outside. The only thing odd about the area was the still-burning campfire. Larry had noticed it as they had come in. There'd just been a dust storm blowing through the area, there was no possible way in which the campfire could have remained burning without someone checking it. A round whistled by Larry's head and confirmed his fears, before numerous muzzle flashes lit up the interior of the gas station, fired from barrels poking out of the windows. "CONTACT!" Came a cry from his group, and the riflemen scattered to cover. Larry leveled his service rifle and fired several rounds at the windows before ducking into cover behind a large rock. The unmistakable 'Plink' of a varmint rifle came through the noise of the firefight and a round pinged off his cover. Larry peered around the stone, identifying two muzzle flashes, before ducking behind cover. He caught the attention of one of the recruits hidden behind another rock and, leaning slightly around the rock, pointed to the enemy fire. He then mimed pulling a pin from a grenade. It took two tries for the recruit to understand. He ran up beside Larry behind the cover and, right hand still gripping the service rifle grip, pulled out a hand grenade. Larry did the same and nodded to the recruit, receiving a nod back. Here goes... Thought Larry, a thin trickle of perspiration running down his forehead. "FRAGMENTATION GRENADES!" He shouted, throwing his over the top of the rock followed swiftly by the recruit. His grenade toppled through the air and landed on the porch of the rickety old shop nearest the pumps, whilst the recruits was planted straight through one of the windows. Larry heard a faint cry, one that sounded like it's users was half way through a glass of Brahmin milk, before the three second timer on the grenades passed. Two explosions, Larry's being the earliest, ripped through the sky. The shop disintegrated in a pile of splinters and debris, a small red mist sprayed through one of the gaps between the explosion. Both Larry and the recruit behind the stone slipped down on to their backsides, while the other two recruits ducked behind their own pieces of cover, a small engine block and tipped vending machine respectively. As the last little wheezing explosion occurred, the flames burning brightly on the concrete foundations of the former shack, all four men got to their feet. Larry had dust all over his face from the blast, clinging to both his hair and stubble, and his eyes burnt from the excessive amount of dust clinging to his eye lashes. He turned to the puffing recruit and, with a grin, asked: "Any chance that we maybe-kinda fucked the whole capture plan?" Hoodlum came to a sliding stop at the outskirts of the small, dilapidated township of Dawson. He saw smoke and had heard the clatter of small arms fire a few miles back, but from here, looking through a pair of rusty old binoculars, he could see that Walton had told the truth in his last, agonizing moments of life. Through the smoke and chaos, Hoodlum could see the duster clad raiders of the infamous Red Riders gang, and the poor townsfolk who were putting up a desperate fight for their lives. Scanned past the carnage and death, looking for the signs of the small loot caravan that they no doubt had stashed not to far from the town, there he was sure he'd find the whore he was after. An explosion suddenly caught Hoodlums attention. It issued from behind him, not but a few miles west. He scanned the horizon, and sure enough saw smoke, someone or something had stumbled across the Red Riders lookouts who they had posted down the way in case of patrolling NCR or would-be heroes. Hoodlum had circumvented that little ambush easily, though if the circumstances were different he would have killed them and already be knee deep in the firefight taking place in Dawson. But he wasn't being paid to smoke a bunch of two-bit raiders, he was being paid to rescue a whore, and rescue a whore he would. Besides, if the NCR suffered enough losses to this scum, they would most likely hire Hoodlum to do the job for them. Just as he had finished his musings a bullet came whistling by, Hoodlum drew his small machine pistol, Little Thing, from the small of his back almost instinctively, leveling it at the source of the shot. With a quick burst of three bullets, the ancient Mauser hit its mark, the raider tumbling out of the small patch of brush he had been taking cover in. He groaned and writhed in the dirt, blood spilling from his stomach. Hoodlum grinned, maybe he wouldn't have to look for that loot caravan for much longer after all. After the screaming died down and Hoodlum had gathered up the bullets from the raiders bandoleer and mounted Ironsides, the loot caravan was just on the northern outskirts of the city, holed up by the old RobCo storage building. Hoodlum gunned the engine, now that he knew where the target was, he could have a little fun... he felt he had earned it. He sped towards the town, the gunfire had died down a bit as most of the townsfolk had either died or fled into their homes and were trying to barricade themselves, but soon the place would be awash with new violence. Hoodlum got onto the weather beaten highway leading into the town, drawing his shishkebab, The Devil's Toothpick and thumbing the fire switch for the mounted SMGs excitedly, squeezing off a few rounds to make sure everything was in order. As he neared the towns blown out gates and spotted the first few raiders he activated The Devil's Toothpick and lifted it high over his head with a savage howl of combined aggression and excitement. Even from this distance he could see the raiders eyes widen with disbelief as they saw him racing towards him. One frantically leveled his hunting rifle, and the other rushed into the town to alert his fellows. The rifleman managed to squeeze off one round before Hoodlum closed the distance, lopping his head from his body with his flaming blade. The other raider looked behind him to see the mercenary gaining on him, and frantically drew a 32. caliber pistol, but Hoodlum mowed him down with a salvo from his twin-linked SMGs, ripping him apart. Hoodlum raced through the towns corpse and debris laden streets, skillfully avoiding the bulk of the obstacles in his way. He slew several more raiders, both with his blade and with his guns, before finally coming to a stop. The sight before him was an interesting one. A small merchant group had apparently gotten themselves caught in this crossfire, the pack brahmin having hunkered down behind a dumpster while the merchant and his guards took cover behind some sandbags at the foot of the town hall's steps. They had joined with a small group of five locals, and were embroiled in a brutal gunfight with at least twelve raiders, who had taken up positions on the various floors of an adjacent hotel and behind debris in the square. Hoodlum waited a moment or two, trying to decide weather or not it was wiser to help the townsfolk or simply bide his time and kill whoever was left. A shout from the town hall made the decision for him, "Hey! You gonna sit on your ass or help!" Hoodlum identified the source of that croaking voice, one of the merchant guards, a Ghoul no doubt. Hoodlum barely paid the rotting maggot farm any mind, he had been brought up to think of ghouls as little more than disgusting zombies whose existence was nothing more than a continual eyesore, much like radroaches or giant rats. It was the realization that the merchant may have ammo and parts for his trusty steed that the raiders wouldn't be likely to have laying around on their persons that goaded Hoodlum into joining on the side of the townsfolk. With that decision made, Hoodlum rode into the raiders lines, lighting a stick of dynamite, the last explosive he had left, as he closed the gap. As he sped by the raiders in the square, he sprayed off some rounds from the SMGs to discourage any heroics on their part. He turned the bike into a drift as he neared the hotel, chucking the stick of dynamite into the window and speeding off without losing any momentum. The resultant explosion sent chunks of raider flying out the window and started the chain reaction collapse of the entire building. With the bulk of their comrades dead, the raiders began to pull back, the townsfolk hot on their heels. Hoodlum slowly rode up to the merchant and his crew, a feral smile on his lips, not that they could see past the fanged bandanna. "I want some hazard pay after this!" Jefferson yelled as he shot blindly over the sandbags. "shut the hell up!" both Eric and the caravanner yelled at him. Eric continued to fire at the raiders as Jefferson no doubt made some sort of slur against him. Definitely gonna clock him. his musings on whether or not to brain his co-worker with a lead pipe was interrupted by a raider beating him to it, a rifle round tearing right through his throat as he was preparing to say something more. As eric looked for who shot, he thought he was having a pre-war flashback, but the rain of cement chips kept him ground long enough to realize the motorcycle rider was real. "Hey! You gonna sit on your ass or help!" he yelled over to him. The rider turned and looked at him for a second before gunning the bike and proceeding to slaughter the radiers and wheel around and pull up in front of the two of them. Damn, that was pretty impressive. The gas station's shack was burnt out, largely nothing more than a crisply burnt wooden mess. However, evidence of holier-than-thou activities committed out of sheer malice remained. A number of flayed bodies lay inside one of the gas station's dumpsters, and Larry had been the man unfortunate enough to uncover the gruesome find. He'd vomited heavily, heaving even now in an attempt to clear his system. The smell was almost as bad as the barracks' chef's meals. The other recruits had, in turn, come to investigate. The first man came up to Larry. "You alright?" He asked, before sniffing the foul air and, with a mixture of horror and disgust, saw the cause of the stench. "Holy s-shi-shi-" The recruit keeled over, arms wrapped around his stomach, as he vomited. The other two turned their heads in disgust and looked away from the horrific sight. Larry finally regained his composure. He wiped away what remaining spittle and vomit was around his mouth and managed to speak. "Looks like settlers. They must be from the town up the road." He looked up. His eyes widened in surprise as he did so. Smoke trails were rising from the what looked like the town's area. Larry quickly pieced together his thoughts. "Fuck, these guys must've been their cover." Larry mentally kicked himself for failing to check what type of armour the raiders wore, therefore failing to get together a possible Identification on the hostiles. "Shit, Jenkins." He turned to face the recruit, whom had already snapped to attention. "Get on the radio and contact the outpost." Larry sighed, spitting out a few chunks of vomit. "We're gonna need reinforcements." Jenkins nodded, pulling his backpack radio off and placing it down in front of him. Larry reloaded his service rifle, preparing early, and grouped the other two recruits together. "Looks like actions coming up, boys." Larry put a somber face on. "Eureka." He clicked the rifle bolt for added effect. He liked doing that. Veteran Ranger Jay Frost sits on a crate at the outpost, loading magazines for his anti-materiel rifle and cylinders for his hunting revolver. After this, he absent-mindedly sharpens his knife while in a daydream-like state, the conversations around him only an annoying buzz. Finally, he hears "Frost" and snaps out of his daydreaming. He looks up and is told that he must go to reinforce troopers and provide them sniper support, as the outpost can't spare anymore troopers. Jay quickly puts on his belt, duster, and helmet before jogging out of the base. He eventually arrives at the gas station. "Troopers, I'm Veteran Ranger Frost. I know you were probably looking for more than a lone soldier, but the outpost can't spare anymore men right now," Jay says. "I can provide sniper support or hold our ground from down with you guys. So what will it be?" When Jenkins had told Larry that they'd only be receiving a single man for support, Larry had suddenly felt thoroughly disheartened. A single man? Larry had felt incredibly frustrated by this, especially since he'd have to deal with a burning town. When he'd discovered it was a single ranger, it had been him seeing the black armour clad Ranger walking down the road towards them. "This is bullshit." Larry had whispered, producing a snicker from Fatty and Jenkins, but not so much as a peep from the stone faced recruit. "Troopers, I'm Veteran Ranger Frost. I know you were probably looking for more than a lone soldier, but the outpost can't spare anymore men right now," The ranger stated, brandishing a bulky revolver. "I can provide sniper support or hold our ground from down with you guys. So what will it be?" Larry raised his hand to his chin and rubbed his stubble. "You," Began Larry. "Can cover me and the others whilst we head into the town." The Ranger's helmet's glowing-red eyes bored into him. Larry realized what the ranger was waiting for. "Sir." He finished, giving an uninspiring salute. The Ranger saluted back, then leaned over to the side to look over Larry's shoulder at the columns of smoke rising behind Larry. "Well," Frost said, spinning the revolver's cylinder. "Let's get to work then." The town itself was largely abandoned, the old wooden buildings and few stark concrete structures stood decorated with a few little post-apocalyptic trinkets. A few old car wrecks dotted the dust road cutting through the town, abandoned hundreds of years ago. But, more recent carnage littered the street. Cadavers and corpses littered the road, either wearing NCR settler garments, wastelander gear and ad-hoc raider gear. The five man strong squad, comprised of the three recruits, Larry Johnson and Jay Frost marched up the road. The third recruit was walking out in front, ahead of the main bulk of the group, when the first salvo came. Larry had seen quite a few dead townsfolk littering the street, alongside a crashed motorcycle, when a cry went up. "NCR, fuck 'em up!" The bullets came so fast that even some of the flies dotting the corpses got hit. The recruit spun around, blood flying from wounds spontaneously forming over his body as the other two recruits ducked. Larry found himself thrown to the ground by Frost as he fired his own hunting revolver at the visible raiders. A man in his early 20s with a purple mohawk was thrown backwards as blood spewed from his left eye socket, presumably from where the bullet hit. The raiders turned their fire to the ranger. Frost ducked as Larry jumped up and fired off his service rifle shots. Three bullets pinged off the car that Frost and Larry were behind, whilst Larry fired at them. Another raider was felled by the volley of shots fired from Larry's rifle, his hands rushing to clutch the gaping neck wound, his eyes positively bursting from their sockets with pain. The other two recruits fired around their cover, hitting some of the raiders in the legs and torso. Larry had to duck as a bullet whizzed past his ear. Suddenly, a mad rush of bravery hit Larry. He leaped out of cover, shooting as he side-stepped through the enemy fire. Their fire was drawn onto him. He was exhilarated, but then a massive pain shot through his left calf. He felt himself tumbling, index finger still clutching around the trigger of his service rifle. He fell straight down with a thump, exposed completely to the enemy fire, blood spewing from the wound in his leg. "FUCK!" He screamed through gritted teeth, eyes welling up in pain. Rounds pinged off the ground all around him, the raiders going crazy over the chance of bagging another NCR casualty, despite the best efforts of Frost, Fatty and Jenkins to suppress their fire. Suddenly, a fourth shooter began firing from around the corner of a doorway, the rifle clutched by a ghoul, whilst a fifth man ran out and grabbed Larry by the neck, dragging him towards the doorway. Larry felt his torn wound catch on a rusty nail as he went through the doorway, and he gritted his teeth in pain from this. He shut his eyes as he bared the brunt of the pain as his bleeding calf was rubbed across a hard, wooden floor. When he stopped, he could still here shooting and the occasional cry from one of the raiders. Looking up, his eyes semi-open he, he was greeted with an almost feral looking smile. The wearer of this smile had a black and orange hoodie with the hood drawn over his head. Looking around the room, Larry could see a pale looking man in leather armour crying to himself, clutching a bleeding neck wound with a rag, whilst another, stout looking caravaneer-type sat down with a stetson turned over his head. The ghoul he'd seen by the doorway was presumably still there from the sound of the rifle, firing away at the enemies. He turned back up, locking eyes with the feral-looking man. "The fuck do you want?" Grimaced Larry. The man came in closer. "Name's Hoodlum. You seen my bike?" And smiled. ''Outta the frying pan... ''Larry thought to himself, rolling his eyes as the crack of gunfire continued. The NCR trooper didn't need to answer, though Hoodlum would have liked to know if any of the raiders had taken it upon themselves to try and rummage around Ironsides since they had pinned the group down about half an hour ago. Though Hoodlum was thoroughly enjoying himself, that would change rather violently if any of the raiders so much as touched his motorcycle. Hoodlum patted the trooper on the shoulder good naturedly, and quickly lept back to the doorway. He hadn't gotten to see what kind of damage his steed had suffered in the initial chaos of the ambush, though he was sure it was nothing he couldn't fix with the right parts, he had to know just how far behind this little skirmish would put him behind his target. The Ranger and overweight trooper were still out in the open, albeit behind some amidst cover, while the other trooper was cut off from the rest of the group, suck behind a rusty old mail drop box, desperately trying to unjam his service rifle. The air was almost solid with lead, yet Hoodlum still took the risk of having his masked face blown off, he peaked around the corner and got a good view of his bike. The damage was not particularly extensive, but from the fumes roaring up from the engine, it would take a good week to have her back up to snuff, if he could find all the right parts. "Ah dammit all..." Hoodlum cursed as a fresh salvo forced him back behind the relative safety of the doorway. His eyes settled on the trooper again, clutching his calf, the wound looked pretty bad, but Hoodlum remembered walking off the like once or twice before. "Hey, trader!" He called to the merchant, who snapped his head from the wounded guard, Jefferson they called him, to face Hoodlum. "You got any bandages? Maybe some Buffout? Our brave solider here needs it, oh and maybe some Nuka while your at it!" He laughed, shedding excess Adrenalin. The merchant narrowed his eyes at the mercenary, but obliged, rummaging around in some saddlebags he had dragged along with him ever since the pack brahmin decided to take a bullet to the ass and run off. The trader tossed Hoodlum the bandages, and a half empty bottle of Buffout. Hoodlum caught both but still stared at the trader expectantly. The exasperated merchant silently mouthed the word "Seriously?" and rummaged some more, producing one bottle of Nuka-Cola and rolling it across the floor to Hoodlum. He stuck the neck of the bottle under his bandanna and bit the cap off, flicking it back to the trader while he took a swig of the slightly radioactive beverage. He set the flat, lukewarm soda to the side and worked his way over to the trooper, who was still hyperventilating in pain. "Hey, hey," Hoodlum grabbed the trooper by the jaw and lightly slapped him out of the haze of pain, "take this." He poured out some tablets of Buffout and handed them to the trooper, who wasted no time stuffing them in his mouth. Hoodlum offered him the Nuka to help wash it down. The trooper handed him back the Nuka, which he finished off, chucking the bottle out the open doorway where it was blown to pieces in mid air by the indiscriminate spray of bullets. "Got a name?" Hoodlum asked as he causally stretched out some gause. "Larry." The trooper spat, the Buffout still working its way through his system. "Well nice to meecha Larry, tell me, dose the NCR teach all its grunts to jump out into the thick of it? Or you just one of them 'spec-ops' types?" Hoodlum chuckled as he sized up the strip of gauze. "Now, even with the Buffout, this is gonna sting like a mutha fucka, sooo..." The mercenary looked around for a suitable object, finally picking up a spent shotgun shell and placing it firmly in Larry's hand. The trooper knew what to do, placing the shell in his mouth and giving Hoodlum a curt nod. A grunt of pain still escaped Larry's mouth as Hoodlum bandaged his wound, he noted the feral-looking mans practiced hands, he clearly had done this before, but then again, so had alot of rank and file men of the NCR. Larry was certain had their rolls been reversed, he could have probably done the same thing.